


The Fall

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [33]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, Drinking to Cope, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 10:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Hank's story immediately following Runaway Bride





	The Fall

Hank portrayed himself as a pessimist most times, but in reality, he was an eternal optimist.  He could hope for something to happen for years, if he had to.  His on again off again decades long relationship with Karen was proof of that.  So, true to form, he hoped.  On the way to the airport, he hoped Stella was right behind him.  At the security checkpoint, he hoped she'd come running, maybe cause some sort of scene about cutting in line to join him and pull her badge out to frighten/impress someone.  Waiting in the terminal to board, he hoped she'd stroll up dragging her suitcase behind her.  Buckling his seatbelt, he hoped she'd be the last to board right up until the point the flight attendants closed and locked the door.  

 

Hope didn't end there.  Going through customs at JFK, he checked the arrivals board and saw at least a dozen flights from London landing later in the day.  And there was always Laguardia to consider, and Newark.  He hoped she'd show up at the loft an hour or two behind him, catching the first available flight she could get since she missed theirs.  Because hope allowed him to tell himself she'd simply missed the flight.

 

Even calling her to leave a message on her voicemail that he'd made it in okay and he loved her gave him hope.  After all, her phone could be off because she was currently in flight, not because she was avoiding his call.  

 

He told Becca that something had come up last minute for Stella at work.  She'd be along on a later flight and not to worry, everything was fine.  The wedding was still set for tomorrow evening.  He wasn't sure Becca believed him, but he would hold out until the sun set tomorrow if he had to.  

 

It had been dreary and overcast when Hank left London, but clear and sunny when he landed in New York.  He took it as a good omen.  Tomorrow - the wedding day - was the first day of fall.  It certainly didn't feel like fall, too hot and bright for the season.  It reminded him of a quote he particularly liked from grad school when one of his professors had been fixated on the opening passages of books and the importance of hooking a reader in.   _ Indian summer is a woman.  Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases, so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.   _ He’d liked how provocative and suggestive it was. __ Now, it just seemed kind of fitting.

 

He considered calling Karen and telling her the truth, that he wasn't sure if the wedding was going to happen, but that would mean accepting it as a possible reality, and he wasn't ready to do that.  Hope was something that could only be pried out of his cold, dead hand if he wanted to hold on to it at times.

 

The loft smelled musty to him.  He turned on all the fans and opened a window to air it out, but that just let the hot air in.  He spent most of the day sprawled out on the couch in his underwear, jet lagged and sweating.  When the sun finally started to fade and it became a little cooler, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and made up his own drinking game.  A sort of version of ‘she loves me, she loves me not,’ only the point was not to pluck the petals from a daisy, it was to drink until he passed out.

 

First shot, she loves me.

 

Second shot, she loves me not.

 

Third shot.  Fourth shot.  And so on.  Unfortunately, he lost count.  His vision blurred and he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

He was enmeshed in a very elaborate dream where he was floating in a pool filled with blue flowers.  There was a Ferris wheel on one side of the pool and a circus tent on the other.  A barker stood outside the tent on a platform, shouting at Hank to step up and see the unknown riches inside the tent.  He tried and tried to entice him inside, promising exotic sights, the likes of which had never been seen before, but Hank shrugged and continued to float, moving his fingers through velvety soft petals, absolutely content.  He was pretty sure, whatever that barker was selling, he'd seen it.  There was no curiosity left in him.

 

He looked over at the Ferris wheel and it was empty, except for one rider at the top.  When the wheel came down, he saw it was Stella and he waved to her.  He rolled off his raft and swam through the flowers to get out of the pool.  He left a trail of petals behind him as he crossed to the wheel.

 

“Can I ride with you?” Hank shouted.

 

“Yes,” Stella answered.

 

The wheel continued to turn, and Hank couldn’t find a way to stop it.  There didn’t seem to be any gears or a system in place to control it, so the wheel just kept turning.  One of the times she passed, he saw a brake in the car with her.

 

“Pull the brake,” he called to her.

 

“I don’t know how,” she answered.

 

He watched her go by and the wheel just kept turning.

 

It was dark, save for an elongated, window-shaped patch of streetlight on the floor by the couch when Hank woke up.  There was a noise somewhere.  Running water and footsteps.  He knew that couldn’t be right.  He tried to get up, but he was dizzy and lethargic and still sweaty from the heat and the alcohol and his body wouldn’t really cooperate.

 

“Don’t get up,” Stella said.  At least, he thought it was Stella.  He couldn’t be sure if he was still in a dream or if he was hallucinating.  He also couldn’t see her, but he could smell her jasmine perfume.

 

He relaxed and took a healthy, deep breath.  “Didn’t really want to anyway,” he mumbled.  

 

Something cool was placed over his forehead and then around the back of his neck.  He sighed.  Small hands caressed his chest and his sides.  He forgot, for a moment, where he was and why he felt like shit.  When he remembered, he groaned and struggled to open his eyes.

 

“Stella?” he asked.

 

“I’m here.”

 

He felt her sit beside him on the couch, her hip next to his, a hand in his hair.  All he could see was shadows.  He brought his hand up, feeling his way to her shoulder and then curled his hand around her neck.

 

“What time is it?” he asked.

 

“Half past four.”

 

“Mm.”  He felt her lean her head into his hand when he lifted it to her face.  His arm was heavy though, and he had to drop it back to his abdomen where he scratched his stomach lightly.

 

“Do you still want me?” she whispered.

 

He chuckled and coughed, a whiskey-flavored vibration tickling his throat.  “You gotta be fucking insane, Sherlock, if you’re gonna ask me something like that.”

 

“Will you still have me?”

 

“What’s today?”

 

“Saturday.”

 

“What’s today?”

 

“I believe it’s to be our wedding day.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“I need to apologize to you.”

 

“Apologize in the morning when I don’t have whiskey dick.”

 

“You know it’s not you I’m afraid of, right?  It’s me.”

 

“I don’t know how a Ferris wheel works either, but we can figure it out.”

 

“Go back to sleep,” she whispered, her lips grazing his.  “Brush your teeth before you find me in the morning.”

 

“Mm.  When I collect on my apology?

 

She slipped away from him and he reached out, but he couldn’t find her.  His heart raced.  He tried to push himself up in a panic, afraid these last few minutes had been a manifestation of his hope-fueled imagination.

 

“Stella?” he called, searching in the dark.

 

“I’m right here.”  Her hand squeezed his shoulder and she pushed him to lay back down on the couch.

 

Hank reached out and took her hand, feeling his fingers until he found the ring and then he relaxed.  “You’re gonna marry me by the end of the day,” he said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s so fucking crazy, Sherlock.”

 

“It is.”

 

“You will be here in the morning won’t you?”

 

“I’ll be here.  You have an apology to collect.”

 

“Mm.”  He smiled.  “I can’t wait.”  He loved make-up sex.  And then she was going to marry him.

 

The End

 

 


End file.
